


Improper Attire

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Looks like my ridiculous crush on Q is back, Q's hair is wonderful, basically just eventual smutty goodness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23038114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Neither you nor Q had ever defined this thing between you, and really you had no desire to. Working for MI6 was often more than a job, it was a lifetime commitment sort of deal.
Relationships: Q (James Bond)/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nana_41175](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nana_41175/gifts).



> I humbly lay this at the feet of Nana_41175, whose 00Q fics I have devoured like a toddler first tasting chocolate.
> 
> Q's cats, whom I have named Alan and Ada, are after two influential computer scientists, Alan Turing and Ada Lovelace.

“Getting rather late, don’t you think?”

You turned at the familiar, crisp voice. Your Quartermaster stood in the doorway of one of the three, tiny private working spaces (if anywhere within a place with as many cameras as Q-Branch could be considered private), Scrabble mug in hand. The black wave of his hair topped a lean face of planes and angles, high cheekbones, glasses that seemed only to serve to highlight those sharp, curious eyes.

Despite the waning hour - close to midnight, you saw with some surprise, Q wore his standard uniform of button down shirt with a tie, cardigan over the top, black trousers. He never deviated from the combination. The prim clothing only made you keener to see what lay beneath. You’d been lucky enough to find out, a time or two, usually on nights like these, just the two of you left at Q Branch, everyone else gone home.

“Pot, meet kettle,” you replied just as crisply. The ghost of a smile played on Q’s lips as he nodded almost imperceptibly in agreement. “Almost midnight and you’re still wearing a tie,” you added cheekily, unplugging your headphones and setting them on the small desk you worked at.

He sipped his tea. Earl Grey as usual; the comforting scent of bergamot wound its way through to air to you, just a hint of citrus melded with the aroma, that would be his habitual slice of lemon, then.

“I rather think the proper attire puts one in the proper frame of mind for work.”

And he would know. It was really all you had of him. Work, and his two cats, Alan and Ada. Q gave so little of himself away in Q Branch, even though it was abundantly clear that here was where he was most comfortable, fingers flying over keyboards, somehow able to see the tiniest detail even on multiple huge screens, his eyes always alert and bright, scanning and observant.

Occasionally he’d crack a joke so dry you’d need a gulp of water after, but usually he was all cool, emotionless business, smoothly guiding the 00 agents through whatever minefield they’d landed in. Q was unflappable around the clock, always on hand, his steady voice enough to reassure any 00 in even the most precarious situation.

Only twice, on nights like these, had you seen his composure fail. Tiny chinks in his armour that, once seen, were impossible not to crave.

You stood up from the chair. “And improper attire? What would that put you in the mood for, Quartermaster?”

He  _ liked _ it when you called him that. A faint blush kissed his neck, the tips of his ears. It was adorable.

The only noise in Q Branch came from the distant hum and whirr of the house-size servers in the building. Londoners joked that you were never more than six feet from a rat; MI6 employees joked that in Q Branch you were never more than six feet from someone hacking.

“A Quartermaster is never in improper attire at work,” Q murmured, but there was that glint in his eye, and you took it as permission.

You stopped right before him, took the mug from his hand. He let you and you set it down gently on the desk nearest the door. “But it’s high time you were off the clock. Sir.”

He arched one dark brow at that, but said nothing, the line of his mouth soft, but silent. You waited for him to offer some protest, go and check on one of the  _ hundreds _ of computers that he practically lived in, and, for, but no words surfaced from his lips.

You lifted your hands and gently tugged his tie - navy blue today, with tiny cream polka dots - free from the line of his black cardigan. He allowed it. Your knuckles brushed his neck as you carefully freed the fabric from the half windsor knot he habitually wore it in.

“No clever quip for me today?” you asked softly as you let the tie hang on his body, the middle of the snake-like fabric still tucked into the collar of his crispy white shirt. 

“Words are sometimes quite unnecessary,” he whispered back in that cultured voice, and then he finally, finally touched you, cupping your face in his hands for a kiss that started off butterfly-wings soft, and grew in slow, sweet increments.

You’d never defined this thing between you, and really you had no desire to. Working for MI6 was often more than a job, it was a lifetime commitment sort of deal. Agents worked around the clock and despite their form of espionage taking place at desks, Q Branch employees worked no less diligently or adeptly. Their hours were just as long, their hearts just as dedicated.

Q licked into your mouth and you welcomed it. He tasted of bergamot and lemon, with just an edge of sugary, almondy sweetness, probably from the bakewell tarts one of the interns had left in Q Branch’s kitchen earlier this afternoon.

His taste was unique and intoxicating and you knew you might never get enough.

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get smuttier.

Your breaths were loud in the stillness of Q Branch, only the whirr and hum of servers and computers to keep your heartbeats company. 

You flattened your palms and slid them up Q’s chest, then let your fingers skim over his shoulders and sink into that wavy tangle of hair. Chocolate-dark, you often dreamt about the silky feel of it between your fingers, the way it fell into his eyes when he eased down between your thighs, putting that sharp tongue to good use, making your body bow.

He broke the kiss and stroked his hands down your body, bringing you flush against him as he started to explore the tender skin of your neck, nipping gently at the sensitive skin and then laving the tiny hurts.

When you’d first met, you hadn’t paid too much attention to the genius Quartermaster; youngest the MI6 had ever recruited. Then, over time, you’d listened to him,  _ really _ listened, to his sharp tongue, his lightning-quick mind, always working overtime under that insane, shaggy hair, green eyes alert behind the glasses he was never without. He was funny, acerbic, thoughtful. Obsessed with tea. Often had his arms wrist-deep in the shell of a computer whilst guiding a 00 through an exploding building in Kabul  _ whilst _ also thinking about last night’s expert-level Sudoku puzzle in the daily paper.

And then before you knew it, you were noticing things about him. The curve of his jaw. The scent of him, tea and the faint tang of gunpowder and fresh soap. The way his eyes lit  _ just so _ in the early evening light from the big Q Branch windows. You noticed more and more until want for him curled into every corner of your being.

It had come to a head for you one evening at the firing range. You’d come for some thinking time, to practice with your weapon, just in case - an MI6 employee could never be too careful. Q had been there, ear protectors in place, stance just so, death in his eyes and his finger on the trigger, gripping the Walther with cool precision. That had been it for you.

You arched your neck to give him better access and he turned you, subtly but swiftly, backing you into the desk by the door. You stopped when you bumped gently into it and Q hummed in approval, busy hands starting on the buttons of your smart blouse. One button, then another and another. You breathed him in as he worked diligently, the scent of almond and bergamot intoxicating and somehow, the scent of  _ home. _

His knuckles brushed your bare skin; the lace of your bra. You obliged him as he eased the parted fabric down your arms and let it whisper to the floor, unmissed. 

“Exquisite,” he murmured, reaching around to unclasp your bra, and then it, too, joined your blouse at your feet. Q cupped your breasts reverently and bent his head to lavish attention on them. You scooped your hands through his tousled hair. At times like this you wondered how many other people he’d done this with, but those sort of thoughts were dangerous, and you didn’t entertain them for long.

As he pleasured you, his tongue warm and wet, his mouth sweet and diligent, you shoved the grey cardigan off his shoulders where it pooled at his elbows. He murmured his approval as you turned your attention to the shirt, popping one button after another. Your bodies must look like a tangle of arms and clothes and hands and sighs, you thought, happily.

“Q.”

He stopped his ministrations, straightened.

“That’s better.” You pushed the cardigan, shirt and loose tie off his body, exposing his lean, lithe form. An arrow of tourmaline hair led down below his belt. “More.”

He obliged you. The sound of the leather sliding through the metal catch of his belt was loud between you. You stilled his hands. “Let me.”

A smile kicked up one corner of his mouth, soft from your kisses, as you undid his belt all the way, letting his trousers pool at his feet. He wore plain black boxers, serviceable, not intended to seduce, but you were seduced all the same.

No matter how many times you did this, you’d never get tired of seeing him like this, stripped bare, all the coldness and detachment he deployed as Quartermaster peeled back. You knew what it cost him not to react to the sound of a 00’s last breaths as he communicated with them, knew why he was often so brisk and businesslike. But you’d scaled his walls all the same, and now you were behind them, you were never going back.

You looped your arms around his neck and pulled him back into a kiss, sighing into his mouth as his hands spread over your back, touching, claiming. His palms were warm as they skated down your sides, hiking your skirt up. “Turn around,” he murmured against your lips, and you did so with one last tug on the glorious fall of his hair. 

You gazed down at your hands spread on the smooth walnut desk, hearing the rustle of a condom; Q’s quiet breathing. He put those clever fingers to work at your entrance, first easing your underwear down to your knees and then finding you wet and ready. He stroked you in slow circles, and you watched his hand move between your legs. Every part of you tingled, and you felt him hot and heavy against the small of your back. Your skirt was rucked up around your waist; what a picture you must make. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

“Now?” he asked into your shoulder, ejecting just enough of a stern, Quartermaster tone that you bucked against his hand, waves of pleasure making your back arch. 

“Now,” you agreed, and he filled you in one smooth thrust, dragging a groan from his lips. You loved those sounds from him. Q was the poster boy for British reserve, but with you, like this, he let go, and it was unendingly beautiful.

He braced his hands on the desk, his arms bracketing yours as he built a steady rhythm, fucking you slowly, perfectly. You pushed your hips back into his, drawing a gasp from deep in his throat. You savoured it. He groaned your name as he thrusts became more erratic, and you freed a hand to touch yourself just above where he filled you, your body undulating against his. You shattered around him just as he stilled, pressing his lips to the curve of your shoulder, emptying himself inside you.

You both sagged after the little aftershocks rocked you. Q kissed the side of your neck, murmuring something unintelligible.

After, he disposed of the condom, you both sorted your clothes out, casting furtive glances at each other. You watched Q’s hands button up his smart shirt, watched him loop his tie around.

“Maybe I’ll put that tie to better use, next time.”

His hand slipped, and you smiled. He wanted there to be a next time.

“Q?”

“Hmmm?” He came past you to pick up his mug, dropped a kiss on your lips. He still tasted of bergamot and smoky tannins.

The phone in the main room of Q Branch rang, shrill, loud in the silence. It would be M, you knew. And just like that, your interlude was over. 

Until the next time you burned the midnight oil.


End file.
